


Boxing up

by Obotligtnyfiken



Series: Chickens coming home to roost [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotions, Ficlet, Gen, Post-Season/Series 04, whisky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2019-02-06 07:43:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12812856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Obotligtnyfiken/pseuds/Obotligtnyfiken
Summary: Mycroft does not think of Sherrinford, or the events that took place there.





	Boxing up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SincerelyChaos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SincerelyChaos/gifts).



> This ficlet takes place after season four of BBC’s Sherlock.
> 
> It is inspired by the prompt Emotions + “motion blur” that I got from SincerelyChaos. Thank you for the inspiration! 
> 
> The prompt is based on one of my “Moffat’s chickens”: twelve ideas from the hiatus about what Steven Moffat could have meant when he said in an interview that chickens were coming home to roost in s4. Link for Moffat's Chickens: https://obotligtnyfiken.tumblr.com/post/138370350688/master-post-for-moffats-chickens
> 
> I do not own these characters. This work is for entertainment purposes only.

Mycroft swirled the tea at the bottom of his cup before putting it down on the saucer. A small splash of amber liquid escaped over the rim of the cup, landing on the dark green leather of the desk in his study. He sighed and carefully wiped it away with his napkin, wishing that it was whisky instead of Darjeeling. 

It was supposed to be just one night. For one night, three weeks after the events at Sherrinford, Mycroft had crumbled a bit. Just one night. He had decided that “events” and “crumble” were appropriate euphemisms and that ought to be that. Words, when applied right, could work like the packing tape on a storage box. The thing inside didn’t disappear, but the box was sealed tight and could be placed in storage indefinitely, out of the way and eventually, hopefully, forgotten. 

That night was now several months in the past, but despite his careful packaging, a miniature version of the “crumbling” kept repeating itself: the annoying prickling in his eyes, the race of his heartbeat, the clenching ache in his stomach and the way his lips would make a tiny wobble if he didn’t press them into an unforgiving line. 

He supposed that he should be thankful that it never happened in tediously predictable situations, for example when his security detail walked him down concrete, windowless corridors, or when he was forced to stand in front of large windows with an uninterrupted view of a stormy sea. No. In those moments, he was perfectly calm and composed, thinking of nothing but the fact that he was not thinking about Sherrinford. 

Instead, it was in the comfort of his own study at home, when he reviewed the security reports, that the guilt and the fear would creep up on him. He would be looking at the photographs of Sherlock and John going about their daily absurdities, of Molly trudging to and from the morgue, and of Greg looking tired and lonely as he lit yet another cigarette at the end of yet another long day. Then, suddenly, the sharp pictures would blur, as if the people in the frame wouldn’t stay put, as if they were rebelling against being captured at this precise moment in time. 

Several times, Mycroft had been forced to consciously stop himself from complaining to Anthea about the quality of the photographs. Motion blur, he wanted to say. Not acceptable. 

No, it wasn’t acceptable. But he was being forced to accept so much these days, so many defeats and so many regrets. He chose not to think about it. He would do the same with the motion blur. Sooner or later, it would just go away. Or at least stay in its box in storage. One day, “events” would be a strong enough packing tape to keep the box shut. 

Mycroft stood up, loosened his silk tie a few millimetres, walked over to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a glass of whisky. 

One day, the box would stay shut. One day. One night. 

He sat down in his armchair in front of the fire and took a long, slow sip. 

Not today. Not tonight.

**Author's Note:**

> No beta this time, and English is not my first language. Please comment if you find any mistakes!


End file.
